


The Furies

by Petronelle



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronelle/pseuds/Petronelle
Summary: Esmé loves nothing more than a game, and who better to play with than the one woman who had never bent to her will? Jacquelyn and Esmé have their own complicated past; VFD high society is no place to play romance dangerously, and yet they both found themselves in each other's arms and thoughts often enough that they grew quite careless. Esmé, ever keen to rekindle an old flame, seeks out Jacquelyn to cast up memories of the past, and raise the stakes; a third player has entered their midst, and Olivia Caliban is more capable of holding her own than either of them could have anticipated.Rated M for later chapters; open to critique, purposefully trying to venture out of my comfort zone and would love feedback, especially as to whether or not I'm writing in-character.





	1. Chapter 1

There are many sounds one might find comforting, such as soft rain against one’s window, or a pot bubbling gently on the stove, or the soft susurration of silk as the lady of the house strides right past your hiding place, unaware of your presence.  
For Jacquelyn Scieszka, however, the sound that punctured the soft white plume of her half-dozed afternoon thoughts, was not a comforting sound at all. It was late afternoon, and by all accounts, the bank should have been empty, save for Jacquelyn and the last few documents she had to review for Mr Poe in order to look as though she did some work outside of making mysterious phone calls under tables and disappearing at inconvenient intervals. However, The Sound that had drawn Jacquelyn from her reverie was a most unwelcome indication that she was not, in fact, alone, nor free to sip tea and stare blankly at the wall until her shift ended. If The Sound had been different, Jacquelyn might have pretended to look busy in case it was Mr Poe coming back, however, Jacquelyn was fairly sure that Mr Poe did not wear high heeled shoes. At least not in the workplace. The door swung open, and the originator of The Sound entered, without invitation.

“Fugit inreparabile tempus,” Jacquelyn said, her clipped speech pattern making the words feel like the sharp tick of a typewriter, punctuated in YSL red. Esmé’s Louboutins tapped their own scarlet staccato as she strode over to take the seat across from Jacquelyn’s desk, sparing a moment to look around with an expression of vague distaste.

“Tempus edax rerum,” Esmé purred in response, leaning forward and crossing her legs, one elegant hand delicately draped upon her knee. Esmé trailed her other hand down the alabastrine curve of her throat, to rest at the pearls warming on her décolletage. Jacquelyn set down her cup of tea and leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap and observing Esmé with an enquiring expression. It was not like Esmé to simply “drop by” with no ulterior motive; both parties knew it, and Jacquelyn, though her posture was relaxed, was instantly wary.

Esmé was a remarkably intelligent woman, well-read, graceful both physically and conversationally, and full of a creative fire Jacquelyn, much as she was loathe to admit it, found really quite admirable. However, for all of Esmé’s wiles and charms and subtleties, she was sometimes terribly obvious. The expression “subtle as a brick” is commonly used to refer to people who look round conspicuously when you try to slyly talk about somebody else in the room, or people who suggest strip poker at elaborate costume balls amongst high society because they’re attracted to another guest. In some matters, Esmé could be said to be as subtle as a brick.

“You’re as subtle as a brick,” Jacquelyn said pointedly, her words crisp. “Esmé, what do you want?”

“Don’t be vulgar darling, it doesn’t suit you,” Esmé sneered, leaning in confidentially as she did so. Jacquelyn was afforded a generous view of creamy cleavage and the slightest glimpse of what was no doubt appallingly expensive lingerie. She lifted her gaze to meet Esmé’s, and merely raised an eyebrow, ignoring the threat Esmé’s tone perpetually seemed to imply. Esmé tutted and sat up, her hand fluttering to her chest to adjust her blouse, clearly ruffled that her sly allusion to their intimate past had not fazed Jacquelyn in the slightest.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t impressed,” she said irritably, the oyster-coloured silk shifting like spider’s gossamer beneath her fingers.

“I did no such thing,” Jacquelyn said with perfect composure, her expression catlike and unreadable. She tried not to think too hard about the last time she had been alone with Esmé, nor how long ago it had been.

“You’re infuriating,” Esmé groaned, throwing herself down onto Jacquelyn’s desk with exaggerated disappointment.

“Why are you here, Esmé?” Jacquelyn asked, bells of curiosity colouring the edges of her tone. She was slightly frustrated at letting her voice betray her interest; now Esmé would be painfully smug in the knowledge that her visit had left Jacquelyn decidedly intrigued, a word which here means “wondering why the city’s Sixth Most Important Financial Advisor was simultaneously flirting with and being vaguely threatening toward the secretary at Mulctuary Money Management”. When dealing with Esmé Squalor, nonchalance was the best policy. Esmé sat up, smoothing out her skirt with her hands.

“Truthfully, darling, I miss the way you kiss,” Esmé said, mirth bright in her words, leaning forward across the desk, to touch Jacquelyn’s face with one beautifully manicured fingertip. Jacquelyn shifted out of her reach and regarded coldly.

“Esmé, I don’t have time for this. Either let me unscramble the eternal code that is your personality outside of banking hours, or tell me what you want,” Jacquelyn replied. “I haven’t the patience for you that you used to take such joy in testing.”

“I’m sure you could find it with enough encouragement,” Esmé intoned suggestively.

“Ms Squalor, I will have to insist that you make an appointment and return tomorrow,” Jacquelyn began briskly.

“I wonder if you remember that night at the ball,” Esmé interrupted, her voice dangerously soft, delight warming her cadences as she noted the expression that flickered across Jacquelyn’s face. There was a long pause.

“Which one? There were a great many parties and balls and dances,” Jacquelyn asked airily, aware that a very slight flush coloured her cheeks, though she tilted her chin upward defiantly. Esmé’s eyes were very bright.

“If you’re trying to imply you can’t remember, darling, I’m fully aware I am absolutely unforgettable, and as a result, do not buy your lackadaisical airs for one minute,” Esmé replied silkily. “And regardless, you gave me a reaction; we both know that’s all I’ve ever tried to get out of you.”

Jacquelyn shifted slightly in her seat, her flush dissipating almost instantly as she rearranged her features. The moment Esmé admitted that she was looking for a reaction, Jacquelyn felt herself shift coolly into a glassy impassivity. She seemed almost swan-like, her serenity draped about her shoulders like the vestments of an empress. As she sipped her tea, she could feel Esmé almost seething at her quiet poise, almost sense her desperate desire to grab Jacquelyn’s shoulders and shake her.

“What can I say? I play a killer game of poker,” Jacquelyn said, her smile enigmatic. The real game of cat and mouse with Esmé lay in remaining unruffled; as soon as she spotted the slightest gap in one’s defences, Esmé would gouge ruthlessly until she had taken all she wanted. In this case, what she wanted was not quite clear to Jacquelyn.

“Poker is all luck and no skill,” Esmé retorted.

“Then I guess we both got lucky that night,” Jacquelyn answered, her responses whip-quick and delivered with a cool elegance that made Esmé want to start hurling crockery at walls. As though aware of her internal tumult, Jacquelyn spared a moment to tidy her teacup safely out of harm’s way; Esmé’s talons rapped on the desk in bald-faced irritation.

“I remember smoking cigarettes with you on the roof,” Esmé said. “I told you I’d put one out on you for laughing at my outfit and you dared me to try.”

“But you didn’t, you leaned in like you were going kiss me and shared the smoke with me,” Jacquelyn finished for her, smiling in spite of herself.

“And you thought you were getting a kiss and we both wound up covered in lipstick,” Esmé’s lip curled. “I put a run in your stocking with my heels when we were rolling around like idiots. Too much champagne, darling. Never again.”

“And I took them off and went back downstairs bare-legged, until the good Duchess herself turned me on my heel and sent me back upstairs to arrange myself more properly,” Jacquelyn said.

“To be fair,” Esmé said, raising a hand to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “Bare legs weren’t very in that particular week.”

“We just stayed upstairs for the rest of the party, you taught anybody unwise enough to join us how to vogue, and bribed Monty to bring us drinks.”

“And he did it too, even though he took great personal offence to my handbag.”

“Esmé, it was python skin.”

“So? The python didn’t need it anymore.”

“That’s 100% not how that works, but okay. Anyway, enough misty eyed dwelling on events of the past,” Jacquelyn was suddenly steely, steepling her fingers and studying Esmé from across the table. “What do you want? We’ve known each other for long enough now that you can drop the pretence of social mores and just state your intention outright.”

“Well that doesn’t sound very fun,” Esmé pouted. “Aren’t you going to try a little harder to find out what I’m up to?”

“No. My shift ended some time ago, and I don’t get paid overtime to indulge your desire to play games, so please, stop wasting both of our time,” Jacquelyn said curtly, beginning to don her coat and hat and preparing to leave the office.

“Walk with me darling,” Esmé insisted as they left. Her tone was breezy but her words had that demanding weight that never seemed to quite leave her speech. Esmé could make the most half-hearted suggestion persuasive; Jacquelyn couldn’t tell if it was the voice or just her innate expectation of obedience. That was why Jacquelyn had found herself entangled with Esmé in the first place; she was the first woman who wasn’t compelled to obey her every whim, the first woman utterly immune to her charms, and Esmé didn’t like that at all. Of course, Jacquelyn was less immune than she’d ever admit; sharing cigarettes on the roof, sleeping on somebody’s sofa under a very expensive fur coat after a party, standing together under an umbrella kissing because Esmé had initiated and Jacquelyn would never back down from such an obvious power play. Or the opportunity to kiss a beautiful woman; even with her taciturn abilities of charm resistance, she remained ever appreciative of women as a whole. The lavish parties thrown by the members of the VFD had become merely an excuse for her and Esmé to spend time playing at romance with one another, in a strange, childishly stilted way.  
After a pause, Esmé flashed Jacquelyn a winning smile.

“I wanted to invite you to the penthouse,” Esmé purred, suddenly a disarming combination of businesslike and seductive. Jacquelyn narrowed her eyes.

“When? Why?”

“Tonight,” Esmé replied in clipped tones. “I wanted you to meet my new beau; I think you’ll like her. Your colleague certainly did.”

Jacquelyn refused to take Esmé’s bait and folded her arms. They had reached Esmé’s limousine.

“Fine. What time?”

“Whenever it suits you darling, but I assume I’ll see you around seven,” Esmé replied smoothly, getting into the car. Jacquelyn merely nodded and stepped back to allow Esmé to drive off, watching her disappear around the corner with a furrow in her brow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dark was back _in_ , so naturally the lobby of 667 Dark Avenue was shrouded in a crepuscular gloom, candlelight casting looming, many-limbed shadows upon the walls. Fortunately for Jacquelyn, who was not feeling hospitable enough toward Esmé to even consider the stairs, elevators were no longer _out_ , and so she was able take a much faster route to the penthouse. She almost regretted the convenience of it as she stepped out onto the top floor, suddenly wishing the elevator had perhaps taken just a touch longer in order to allow her to gather her thoughts more. As the doors to elevator slid shut and it smoothly departed from it's uppermost mooring back down the lobby, Jacquelyn found herself feeling rather trapped.  
She squared her shoulders and moved to rap smartly on the penthouse door; to her surprise, Esmé answered in lieu of an attendant. She framed herself in the doorway, a vision in draping silks, her hair an aureate halo. Lit by the candlelight, she seemed somehow soft.  
 _Perhaps she really has changed._  
"Good evening, darling. I knew you'd be here at seven," Esmé said by way of greeting. "Not very imaginative, Jacquelyn."  
"I can go home and come back at four thirty AM three weeks from now if you'd prefer a bit more excitement," Jacquelyn said drily, entering the penthouse at Esmé's gestured behest. The door had barely closed before she found herself in Esmé's arms, her hands finding flesh as Esmé's mouth burned searing kisses into her neck, Esmé's thigh spread her legs and pressed against her with such intention that Jacquelyn found herself gasping.   
"God, you still taste of summer. I missed this," she breathed, breaking away from Esmé's lips to try and reorient herself.  
"So did I, darling," whispered Esmé, one hand deftly undoing the clip of Jacquelyn's suspenders, the elastic snapping against her skin enough to make her jump in surprise. Jacquelyn pressed her hand to Esmé's chest and pushed her back.  
"We've never played this way; don't kid yourself," Jacquelyn said sharply, trying to regain some composure as she refastened her stocking in place and pulled her skirt down demurely to hide her exposed thighs. "You can't undress me in your hallway. I won't have it."  
"You're a lot fussier than you used to be," Esmé remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Alright. Come through, we have a lot of catching up to do. And then I intend to finish what I started."   
There was a pantherine glimmer in Esmé's eyes, her smile all at once cruel and alluring.   
"You'll have to try harder than that," Jacquelyn said nonchalantly, adjusting her hair and following Esmé, arms folded over her chest. One good kiss wasn't about to make her climb back into Esmé's bed, she told herself. Regardless of how badly she had wanted to give herself up, she wasn't going to; it wasn't part of the game. She hadn't played for a while, but she remembered, and giving into Esmé was not on her agenda.   
"What's all this about a new beau?" Jacquelyn asked, as Esmé led her through to the lounge.  
"She isn't here yet; for whatever reason she insists on taking the trolley rather than allowing me to have Limousine pick her up. Very quaint," Esmé sighed as she began to prepare drinks at the minibar in the corner. "You two will get on famously, she's a darling."  
"As refined as a girl could wish?" Jacquelyn asked with a slight smile that briefly flashed a single dimple.   
"Darling, don't Rodgers and Hammerstein me in my own home," Esmé replied, handing Jacquelyn a pink confection in a black sugar-rimmed glass. "And refined isn't really the word I'd use."  
"I'm intrigued, I must admit," Jacquelyn said, brows raised in such surprise at Esmé's remark that they were in danger of disappearing into her hair. "Quaint isn't exactly the word I'd think of when listing adjectives that might describe one of your prospective partners."  
Esmé shrugged and sat down, crossing her long legs with a lazy elegance that made Jacquelyn pause mid-sip, though thankfully Esmé did not notice. The silk clung and fell in a shimmering curtain, duochromatic in the low light.  
"All these drapey clothes," Jacquelyn said with mild distaste in her tone. "I don't care if it's in, I don't feel ready to abandon a fully structured bodice."   
"It reminds me of god knows how many years ago when Prada did those silk turbans in bright jewel tones and everything felt terribly fantastical and effervescent," Esmé said dreamily. "One of those periods of fashion where things were very experimental and whimsical. I don't mind the glut of shapeless asymmetry; without structure, the human body is forced to become the skeleton for the art of a garment itself. It finds beauty and poise in the simple bodily tension of existing."  
"Wax lyrical all you want, the artistry means little to me if I feel like a human coathanger," Jacquelyn said blithely, adjusting herself in the seat. As Esmé began arguing that ill-fitting and not knowing how to wear something were two different beasts, and that the Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress didn't become iconic by looking amazing on _everybody_ , Jacquelyn allowed her mind to wander. She felt like an outsider looking in, at Esmé lounging on the sofa like an enormous, very animated leopard, gesticulating passionately as she talked about the way fabric fell and the composition of garments across the years. _She's always, much to the collective moral dismay of the universe as a whole, beautiful, but especially so when she's like this; passionate_ , Jacquelyn thought to herself. Esmé was at her loveliest when she felt something real, and in that moment, watching her talk with such fervour about the art she knew best, she remembered why she'd almost fallen in love with her. Esmé was tall and slender, but broad shouldered, which gave her a sort of air of occupying more space than she actually did. Her gestures were generous and sweeping, and her hands, which bothered Jacquelyn at the best of times, illustrated every story as she told it. Those hands could dismantle kingdoms and raise gods in equal measure. Esmé's strong jawline and straight nose gave her a striking, patrician air; even in aesthetic beauty she was fearsomely artistic, and Jacquelyn had never been more grateful for her ability to keep a perfectly straight face when studying Esmé's features; she was lovelier than Jacquelyn could put into words, but Jacquelyn would never admit it anyway so the lack of articulate thought was not a problem. Esmé knew in herself that she was near seraphic in stately pulchritude; her arrogance did not need to be compounded further by Jacquelyn's most unseemly, mooning, internal monologue either. For a brief moment, Jacquelyn compared them, sitting across from each other with the vast city sky peering in blackly at them from the windows. She felt as though she could almost see herself, her narrow, freckled shoulders exposed by the dove grey dress she'd chosen for the evening, her legs tucked up underneath her as she sat, dwarfed, in an enormous claw footed armchair. She wondered if Esmé, in all her gloriousness, made her look small too. It took her a moment to realise Esmé was waiting for an answer.  
"Don't tell me you don't remember, darling," Esmé said, getting to her feet. "Perhaps this will jog your memory."  
She handed Jacquelyn an old, slight dog-eared photograph of two young women standing side by side in white fencing uniforms. One was taller than the other, posed with her sabre with a sort of lazy elegance. The other was smiling enigmatically, leaning on the wall behind her with one eyebrow raised.   
"Gosh, it feels so long ago," Jacquelyn murmured, touching the photograph's surface. Esmé still looked very similar; she had ever been masses of cherubic blonde curls, a jaw sharp enough to kill a man, and an infuriatingly sexy devil-may-care air about her. Jacquelyn less so; in her youth, she had cropped her hair short and had freckles all over from spending so much time outdoors.  
"It was different then," Esmé sighed, sitting down beside Jacquelyn to look at the photo with her. "That was before The Last Masked Ball, before everybody went into hiding and scattered to the four winds."  
"Being a debutante never suited me," Jacquelyn said with a shrug. "So the secrecy was of little consequence."  
"Yes darling, but it very much suited me. And in amongst all the secrecy, I was left behind," Esmé replied, her brow furrowing slightly. "Everything became just so secret that I suppose everybody rather forgot about me."  
"Esmé you know it wasn't like that-" Jacquelyn began.  
"Wasn't it?" Esmé interrupted sharply. Fortunately, at that moment a soft knock on the front door punctuated their conversation, giving Jacquelyn and excuse to try and hide in her drink as Esmé went to answer. There seemed almost an ominous silence. Jacquelyn stood up to great the new guest, but almost sat down in surprise, for she knew the woman entered the lounge of Jacques Snicket's murderer as though she was perfectly accustomed to the presence of the person who murdered the man who had enlisted her into the very organisation that brought all three of them together. In fact, as far as Jacquelyn was aware, the woman standing before her with a warm smile playing at the corners of her mouth had been murdered by Esmé Squalor some time ago, her bones turned to ash, caught in the Hinterlands' winds.  
"Hi," said Olivia Caliban, adjusting her glasses and smiling at Jacquelyn.  
"Hi," Jacquelyn replied, extremely discomfited, a word which here means "just confronted by the very corporeal form of a woman she was quite sure was dead".   
Esmé looked almost beside herself with self-satisfied delight.   
"I just knew you two would get along _famously_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly fluffy/fillery, sorry

Some people feel comforted by the belief that villains are always ugly, because evil is ugly. As anybody who has ever experienced a fair amount of evil might know, this is a fallacy, a word which here means "self-indulgent and damaging nonsense". Sometimes, the kindest people are very ugly. Sometimes, extremely nefarious women are very fashionable, striking, and wonderful at playing the harp. What you look like proves very little, and some people shouldn't be allowed to decree what evil looks like at all, as this can lead to the unnecessary persecution of innocent parties based solely upon their differences from the majority. However, as Jacquelyn Scieszka sat across from a bespectacled librarian with a soft lisp in the home of The City's sixth most important financial advisor (who was at that moment doing something ominous with alcoholic substances at the bar.) she thought to herself that Olivia looked the picture of somebody "good". Her face just seemed to radiate kindness, and also slight confusion. It was very endearing.  
"You're very endearing," Jacquelyn told Olivia, who blinked owlishly in response.  
"Isn't she?" agreed Esmé. "I must admit I initially found her insufferable, but I suppose that's rather par for the course amongst those embroiled in the historical turmoils of a secret organisation."  
Jacquelyn wanted to remind Esmé she had actively been A Very Bad Person, and that to talk about Olivia as though she wasn't there was very rude.  
"I'm glad the climate amongst our ranks has changed," she said instead, replying to Esmé but looking at Olivia, who was picking absently at a loose thread on her blouse. Jacquelyn fruitlessly attempted to excogitate Esmé's orchestration of the the peculiar social happening unfolding in her living room. "Fruitless" is a term that can be used to describe my preferred scone format, or a poorly stocked grocery store, or to indicate futility or uselessness. In this circumstance, the third definition is the most fitting.  
"My attempts to understand why you've brought me here have thus far proven fruitless," Jacquelyn said. To her surprise, it was Olivia and not Esmé who responded.  
"We felt like we owed you an explanation," Olivia said quietly. "And I say we, because we both played our parts in causing the organisation, and the Baudelaires, a great deal of tsuris. And Esmé misses you."  
"Darling, have some subtlety," Esmé interjected, her voice glassy-sharp and clear.  
"I fail to see where any of this is relevant to your..." Jacquelyn gestured between them. "Arrangement? That's what we used to call it."  
"No darling," Esmé said smugly. "And this is why you're here. I got rather _bored_ of arrangements, and thought I'd go back to toying with relationships in this new age of renewed trust."  
"And what does that have to do with me?"  
"You know I've always loved to have my cake and eat her too," Esmé shrugged. "I like you. I like Olivia. I want to like both of you at the same time."  
"Very modern," Olivia added, nodding sagely like Esmé had just recommended a new type of window latch as opposed to a very-outside-of-Jacquelyn's-comfort-zone-relationship-arrangement.  
"Esmé, are you asking me out?" Jacquelyn said, her expression a combination of amusement and horror. "That's not like you."  
"No darling, we're inviting you _in_ ," Esmé replied, speaking with the tone of somebody trying to explain a very complicated concept to a child.  
"Esmé likes me, Esmé likes you," Olivia said with a shrug. "And as I like you too, I do so hope you like me. Surely it only makes a great deal of emotional sense for all of us, as people who like each other, to converge into some kind of affection based collective."  
"And you know me well enough to know that what Esmé _likes_ , Esmé _gets_ ," Esmé purred. Jacquelyn looked between the two women at a loss. In truth, she hadn't been up to much; since the Baudelaire shake up, things had seemed very dull by comparison, and she had yet to find a lover that held her interest beyond a weekend. Perhaps this could be fun, or perhaps it could be an unmitigated disaster. Regardless, Jacquelyn was just caught off guard enough by the lack of preamble and frank introduction to Esmé wanted from her that she decided to entertain the notion Esmé and Olivia were suggesting.  
"You know what?" Jacquelyn said, emboldened by the memory of Esmé's greeting for her at the door to the penthouse. "Pour me a few more drinks and we'll see where this goes."

A great many drinks later, Esmé was lying draped over the couch, smoking a cigarette and hanging over the edge to talk to Jacquelyn who was sprawling on her front on the floor. Olivia sat cross-legged against the arm of the sofa, a glass of red wine sloshing dangerously in her hand as she gesticulated wildly alongside her dramatic reading of a rather blue scene in a book of short stories with a very fanciful name. At some point, the evening had dissolved from polite discussion of the present climate to Jacquelyn and Esmé cheering Olivia into reading all the dirty bits aloud from some books on Esmé's shelf.  
"I feel that this is rather demeaning Anaïs Nin's sociosexual critique, you know," Olivia said with a slight slur, frowning behind her glasses.  
"Darling, we're not ANALYSING the text," Esmé said, gold and leonine as she stretched. "We're just, in a somewhat... juvenile exercise, making you read the sex scenes aloud because it's funny to watch your eyebrows slowly go higher and higher the more explicit they get."  
"It is funny," Jacquelyn admitted. "Never imagined you to be such a pearl-clutching old woman about it."  
"Not at all, and I'm sure you won't doubt me before the evening is out," Olivia replied smoothly. "It's just that the further I read, the more aware I become that there was a copy of this in the Prufrock library. Nero would've had a conniption."  
"Don't talk about men, darling, it's filling me with grim foreboding," Esmé yawned. "I want to have _fun_."  
"I want to take my girdle off," Jacquelyn grumbled, leaning in to take a draw of the cigarette Esmé proffered, the sight of the cigarette between her long slender fingers prompting Jacquelyn to momentarily forget that she did not smoke and never had.  
Olivia studied the two women in that way she often did; there was ever a bright curiosity in her eyes, and it was her way to mentally unpack everything around her. At that moment, she could see a strange tenderness in Esmé, and a grudging sort of appreciation from Jacquelyn. There was a story there, and she intended to hear it. She allowed them their moment with the cigarette, and poured more wine. Olivia had never particularly enjoyed wine, and the bottle she was pouring from at that moment did not stand out to her as any different from any other, save perhaps for the strange, hellish seahorse like creature on the label. She assumed it was very expensive, as everything Esmé owned was. It had been a trial to move her own possessions into the penthouse, as Esmé wanted to just buy new ones. " _Nicer_ ones," she had said pointedly. But Olivia rather liked being a polarising force in Esmé's life; she was a dog-eared old book in a shelf of perfectly preserved first editions. It seemed to fit her. And Jacquelyn, well she was all sorts of things. Where exactly she fitted in to both their lives, Olivia wasn't sure, but some part of her knew she'd find out.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a mention of olivia and jacques but for clarification purposes, i thought i'd make it clear i wrote them as platonic

Talent is a very strange thing. Some people are remarkably talented in areas where others aren't, and some people have no talents at all beyond closely resembling a boiled potato. Talent can seem very random, and sometimes, somebody might have a talent you didn't expect. For example, Jacquelyn Scieszka was a wonderful piano player, an excellent fencer, and very good with dogs and horses. The City's Sixth Most Important Financial Advisor could tie cherry stems in a knot using only her tongue, was a fantastic singer and harpist, and a very skilled embroiderer. One might not expect their school librarian to speak seven languages, have a natural aptitude for calligraphy or be able to cook a delicious meal, and yet Olivia Caliban could do all those things. Amongst the three of them, these talents were of no use to any of the women in their professional careers, and yet each envied the other tremendously. Such is the way of talent; success breeds greed, and people who are wonderful at something always wish they could be wonderful at something else. There is no point in complaining to Esmé Squalor, for instance, that you are terribly jealous as you cannot tie cherry stems in a knot with your tongue, as that won't help you learn. The only way one can find out if they are good at something is trying it out, and the only way to become good is to practise.  
It was with this philosophy in mind that Jacquelyn and Olivia sat on the floor of Esmé's powder room, eating fresh cherries out of a beautiful pink bowl patterned with golden roses.  
"You'll get it eventually," Esmé told them encouragingly as she removed her make-up at a handsomely carved dressing table, laughing at their efforts. "It's like whistling with crackers in your mouth."  
"I used to date a girl who could do that," Jacquelyn said around her cherry stem. "Mozart's fourteenth."  
"How unusual," Esmé replied, a strange look in her eyes. "So did I."  
"Years ago, I kissed a girl at a party who could do that," Olivia said thoughtfully. The three women exchanged a brief, wordless glance, eyebrows collectively raised.  
Esmé was strangely vulnerable without her makeup, her robe draped around her pale shoulders. Jacquelyn knew this was perhaps a more momentous occasion than anybody let on, but both Jacquelyn and Olivia knew better than to mention it. Esmé was taking off her mask. It told each of the women a great deal about the other; that Esmé clearly knew Jacquelyn very well, that Esmé also clearly knew Olivia very well and that she deeply trusted both of them. Taking off her clothes meant very little to Esmé, as she was as fond of her body as an artistic expression as she was out of vanity. However, the tenderness with which she carefully blotted off her makeup with cold cream that smelt nostalgic and softly rosy made Esmé seem peculiarly exposed. She seemed, for a moment, peaceful; still and content within herself, swathed in silk and poised, milk-coloured through the rippling haze of bathwater steam. She turned to divorced shapes, pink suggestions in the mirrormist, her reflection melting into an incandescent blur. She was ethereal as a white hart, seeming almost insubstantial in the momentary quiet between them. It felt as though both Jacquelyn and Olivia were holding their breath, because they were.  
"What?" Esmé asked, the ghost of a smirk creeping into the sharpest edge of her smile.  
"You know what," Jacquelyn said, refusing to indulge Esmé's vanity.  
"You're beautiful," Olivia breathed.  
"Don't start quoting poetry again darling, we'll be here all night," Esmé replied laughingly, and Olivia smiled and flushed slightly; during their secret entanglement, getting drunk and quoting poetry whilst inscribing fingertip calligraphy into the smooth plane of Esmé's stomach had been the standard post-coital affair. It somehow seemed less romantic in Esmé's penthouse in the city than it had in a draughty carnival tent in the hinterlands, but Olivia didn't mind.  
"You're quite the romantic," Jacquelyn said, though it was unclear who she was addressing. Esmé shrugged out of her robe, and Olivia looked away out of politeness. Jacquelyn caught Esmé's eye and raised her eyebrows as Esmé slipped into the bath, her lithe silhouette disappearing into the bubbles and rose petals. She rested her arms on the edge of the bath and leaned forward to meet Jacquelyn's coldly defiant gaze.  
"Miss me?" she whispered, Chloris breathing spring roses in her cloud of scented mist, the petals sticking to her moon-pale skin. Her hair was almost a halo, curling into soft waves in the steam. Olivia looked quietly awed by a combination of Esmé's loveliness, and Jacquelyn's steely refusal to be courted. Unperturbed by Jacquelyn's quiet resistance to her charm, Esmé shrugged and leaned back in the bath, sighing as she did so. Olivia and Jacquelyn were as nereids at the lapping edge of the water, sitting in quiet benediction beside the bath, lazily warm with drunkenness.  
"How much," Jacquelyn asked in a dozing sort of voice, all purple around the edges. "Does this entire affair have to do with the article in April Vogue on polyamory relationships?"  
"Very little, and a great deal more to do with my own predilection for decadence," Esmé replied from the tub. "You two go sober up in the kitchen, find something to eat or do whatever it is that people do."  
Jacquelyn and Olivia exchanged a look of surprise, simultaneously shrugging it off. Sobering up sounded like a good idea, and Esmé had always preferred time alone to think. Both Jacquelyn and Olivia got to their feet and left the powder room, both immediately unsure of which direction one might go in to find themselves within the region of the kitchen. With grim resignation, they set off into the shadowy expanse of the penthouse's many corridors and rooms and enclaves, hoping that they might find the kitchen before they both starved to death in some embarrassingly informal dining room somewhere.

"I always find myself comforted by foods featuring the cold burn characteristic of many types of radish," Jacquelyn suggested, as Olivia rummaged in the fridge for ingredients, enquiring as to what they should eat.  
"A very dear friend of mine shared your fondness for the brassicaceae family," Olivia replied, emerging triumphantly from the fridge with a very expensive looking cut of meat. "I can think of just the thing."  
Jacquelyn was not entirely sure what Olivia was planning, but she selected ingredients with such officious grace that one couldn't help but assume she knew what she was doing.  
"Beef tataki with plenty of wasabi," Olivia added, by way of explanation. "I love cooking here, Esmé buys so many ridiculously expensive, beautiful ingredients, but doesn't have a clue what to do with them. Letting me into her pantry is like setting a painter loose in an art supply shop."  
"Sounds delicious," Jacquelyn said, hoisting herself onto one of the marble counters to sit with her legs dangling and watch Olivia delicately prepare her ingredients and cooking utensils. Within only a few minutes, a delicious smell was wafting through the kitchen, and rice (Olivia, in her infinite wisdom, had presoaked enough for three before the drinking had gotten out of hand) was bubbling quietly on the stove.  
"She misses you, you know," Olivia said softly, barely audible over the ambient kitchen sound.  
"Is this what you want? Or is it what you think she wants?" Jacquelyn asked, avoiding the implication of Olivia's remark. Olivia turned to face her; the dispassion in her gaze was so unexpected that Jacquelyn might have recoiled, if she had been anybody else.  
"You're here because she invited you, that's true," Olivia said, her voice velveted dangerously in a way that was disarmingly reminiscent of Esmé. "But don't mistake me for a fleeting paramour, or as somebody blinded by love either. I didn't come to this without thinking."  
"What, Esmé in general, or this entire arrangement?"  
"Both; I know we both have the niggling knowledge that Esmé is, was, a bad person. She hurt our friends and associates," Olivia replied evenly, ignoring Jacquelyn trying not to laugh at her own pun. "And perhaps, at first, vengeance played a big part in my agreement to our romantic engagement. But you loved her once; you have to know that you can't hate her once..."  
"Once she has a hold on you," Jacquelyn finished, her voice softened by understanding, and the sting of the memory of Jacques.  
"I don't know what I intended to do," Olivia said, barely audible. "The opportunity was there, so many times. But I could never do it."  
"And it's as well you didn't," Jacquelyn said gently, stepping forward to place a comforting hand on Olivia's arm. "Because if you had, Jacques would have been wrong about you. I would have been wrong about you, and I hate being wrong. And Esmé... for all her faults, I can tell she's really trying to change."  
"I let him down," Olivia said, barely audible, as she started to cry. Without a word, Jacquelyn enveloped her in a hug, and Olivia allowed it to happen, too drunk and melancholy to feel awkward. They stood for a moment before Olivia extricated herself, muttering something about overcooking the beef. Jacquelyn let her go, watching her move to prepare the beef tataki.  
"He'd have been proud of you," Jacquelyn murmured. "Even to his last, he offered Olaf forgiveness. You have a good heart, Olivia Caliban. In a world too often governed by corruption and arrogance, you stayed true to your philosophical and literary principles."  
Olivia turned and offered her a teary smile, though her expression quickly turned to that of shock. Esmé was draped in the doorway, a pale vision, a basíleia in a cloud of chiffon and silk.  
"How inspiring," she said wryly, slowly slinking into the kitchen and leaning on the counter. "Whilst you're finishing up your cosy little chat about me, please be sure to open some more wine. We could all use a drink."  
She paused to raise an eyebrow and drag her gaze up and down her two guests with agonising disappointment.  
"We didn't mean it like that-" Olivia started, anxiety raising the pitch of her voice slightly.  
"Oh darling, it doesn't matter how you meant it," Esmé said with a throaty laugh. "You've made it clear you don't trust me."  
"You've never given us any reason to," Jacquelyn responded acidly, stepping forward boldly with a cold look in her eye.  
"Sweetheart," Esmé said, rounding on her with exasperation. "If you don't see that I'm putting us on a level playing field now, that I'm investing _my_ trust in _you_ , then there's no hope for you."  
"I'll believe it when I see it," Jacquelyn snorted.  
"Lucky you, darling," Esmé whispered, closing the distance between her and Jacquelyn in two brisk strides. "I have plenty to show you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of filler; I've not been doing terribly well lately, but I really appreciate the reviews and kind words from everybody despite my poor update speed. Thank you so much for reading, and for inspiring me to continue writing.

Morning was a thin syrup that poured lazily into the penthouse through a tiny gap in the curtains, the city sky painting the walls all desert gothic in shades of pink-vermillion, the sun emerging warm from the tattered blanket of nostalgic evening. The light pooled pale gold in Esmé's hipbones as she shifted in her sleep, Olivia tangled in bronze shadow by her side, the spot where Jacquelyn had slept still warm. Olivia slipped out of bed and followed the open doors to the kitchen, where Jacquelyn was making tea.  
"Good morning," she chirped, her voice still smoky with sleep. Even with her hair in disarray and the remnants of yesterday's makeup clinging to her lashes, she still seemed so composed, exuding a quiet elegance. It seemed strangely intimate, like the loveliness of electric blue early morning imperfection was not for all and sundry to look upon; it felt, to Olivia, very distinctly like A Moment.  
"Good morning," Olivia echoed, looking about herself as though she had no idea how she'd ended up in The City's Sixth Most Important Financial Advisor's kitchen. "...Did we...? Did anything... happen?"  
"Not really," Jacquelyn said. Olivia was slightly taken aback by just how endearing she found the way Jacquelyn wrinkled her nose and blinked, as though to wake herself up. "Once we had weird drunk midnight dinner, we just went to bed with Esmé. She fell asleep almost right away, and you were no better."  
"Oh thank goodness," breathed Olivia, hastily raising her hands defensively when she realised how the relief in her tone might have sounded. "I don't mean like that! I just mean... I don't know if I'm ready for anything to happen."  
"That's okay," Jacquelyn replied gently, getting up to make Olivia a cup of tea. "I don't think any of us are. We need to figure out where we stand. With Esmé it's different, she just makes it feel so... natural to fall into bed with her. But when it's all of us, that takes a little more time."  
"That makes sense," Olivia nodded slightly, gratefully taking the cup of hot tea from Jacquelyn as Jacquelyn set a scone studded with bright flecks of raspberry in front of her. "It feels very whirlwind."  
"Because it is," Jacquelyn shrugged, passing Olivia a little pot of clotted cream and some raspberry jam. "Esmé decided what she wanted, and she set out to have it without thinking about it. And now you and I, with little between us besides VFD and our time with the Baudelaires, are dragged in her wake."  
"Will this... complicate things? For us as volunteers, I mean," Olivia asked, remembering with a cold shiver just how tight a grip VFD had on so many facets of her life. Jacquelyn and Esmé had been unusually educated and rigorously trained by VFD from childhood; Olivia, who had quite stumbled into the organisation's midst as a lost soul, was still not used to just how much of her life she had signed away under Jacques' influence.  
"Nah. They might as well rename the organisation to PEHSW."  
"PEHSW?"  
"People Esmé Has Slept With," Jacquelyn translated with a vampish smile, her smudged lipstick making her look wicked and undone. "She likes her pleasures in life, our Esmé does. And when you're one of them, it feels like you could take on the world. Just don't get burned."  
"I won't," Olivia assured her. "I feel like there's a key component you aren't telling me, but don't worry, I'll be careful."  
"Were you and Jacques like... a Thing?" asked Jacquelyn curiously, changing the subject. Olivia laughed.  
"No, never," she replied, sipping her tea. "He did kiss me rather suddenly one day, but when I did not reciprocate, I think he understood that I was not buying what he was selling. I wasn't even in the same grocery store."  
Jacquelyn nodded and solemnly high fived Olivia, who looked thoroughly bemused.  
"Gay solidarity," Jacquelyn clarified, amused by Olivia's confusion.  
"I don't think I've ever been high-fived before, that's all," Olivia shrugged, though she looked rather pleased. They sipped their tea in a peaceful quiet for a few moments, before the sound of Esmé stirring somewhere else in the house reached them. There was a pause, then the sound of a shower in one of the many bathrooms turning on, followed by an abrupt yelp of "buggery bollocks, that water is BOILING". Jacquelyn and Olivia stifled their laughter, though for a moment their eyes met and a smile of understanding passed between them.  
"I really ought to get ready for work," Olivia said, getting to her feet. "But I almost want to stay here with you; we have more in common than I thought we would."  
"We can always share good conversation about our taste in women and books," Jacquelyn replied, rinsing the mugs out in the sink. "I think Esmé was right. We'll get along famously."

 

It was with enthusiastic encouragement from Jacquelyn that Olivia called in sick to work; they had a great deal to discuss and in Jacquelyn's opinion, it simply wouldn't be beneficial to themselves or the organisation not to convene at the earliest possible date. As a result, both women sat together in one of the comfortable parlours in the penthouse, sipping tea and gossiping. Jacquelyn was not expected back at the bank, as she had taken a week off the day previously, when Esmé came calling at the office; Jacquelyn had learned in her time as a volunteer that unexpected invitations from old friends may lead to her becoming indisposed for quite some time, and as a result was careful to ensure she could cover these departures from work without too many awkward questions and attendance hearings. Jacquelyn could tell Olivia was deeply anxious about their impending discussion, and about calling in sick to work, as she had been repeatedly making and eating toast with reckless abandon, and had almost worked her way through the entire loaf of bread.  
"Bread helps," Olivia said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Her dark eyes were full of quiet worry. Jacquelyn nodded in understanding; there was an anxious streak in Olivia that Jacquelyn saw in most new volunteers, a strange combination of fear and determination. Dealing with one's problems via excessive carbohydrate consumption is not ideal, but it a much healthier coping method than many alternatives. As a result, Jacquelyn did not protest when Olivia gingerly began to make two more slices of toast.  
"How have you been?" Jacquelyn asked gently.  
"I'm not sure," Olivia admitted, avoiding eye contact and instead becoming very involved in locating the apple butter.  
"I can't I say I understand what happened-" Jacquelyn began uncertainly.  
"Nor can I," Olivia replied, a slight briskness entering her voice. "But I have the lion bites and Esmé has the burns to ensure we remember the worst of it every day, and that's enough. As far as the Baudelaires know, as far as anybody was ever supposed to know, I'm dead. For me, things can't go back to how they were, so I've stopped trying to make them."  
"Can we talk about it?" Jacquelyn asked. "All the parts I missed, all the parts Lemony missed, all the pieces in between."  
"Yes," Olivia said after a brief pause. "But not at eleven in the morning, please."

 

Esmé emerged from the shower around lunchtime, hair still wet, in a white ribbed T by Alexander Wang bodysuit, all legs.  
"That's an alarmingly high cut bodysuit. You look like an eighties Vogue cover," Jacquelyn said, trying not to notice how beautifully Esmé's clothing always seemed to fit.  
"It's sportswear darling," Esmé replied impatiently. "And I'm wearing something over it, don't be ridiculous. I have a wonderful high-metallic Isabel Marant jumpsuit the colour of an oil slick; it's very industrial, and the lines are gorgeously edgy. I promise you, the look will work."  
Jacquelyn did not doubt the look would work; she was just personally offended that she was being confronted by so much leg so early in the day.  
"Aren't you going to a meeting?" Olivia asked, eyeing Esmé's limbs.  
"Yes, but not a financial advisor sort of meeting, angelfish," Esmé said, gradually growing more exasperated with her associates' apparent lack of fashion understanding as she slipped into the aforementioned jumpsuit. Jacquelyn had to admit, it was rather fantastic; Olivia was nonplussed. But Olivia also owned wedge-heeled espadrilles, and thus as much as Esmé adored her, she couldn't possibly take her viewpoints on clothing seriously. It was with a dark, iridescent rustle Esmé enveloped each of them in a Shalimar-scented embrace ("Nostalgic scents are In, darlings.") and left them alone in the penthouse. As the door closed behind her, Jacquelyn was already halfway to the kitchen to make more tea; it just always seemed like _the right thing to do._

 

Without the echo of Esmé's voice down the halls, the penthouse seemed even more ominously huge than usual. Jacquelyn and Olivia sat in uncomfortable silence, both aware of the inevitable questions that seemed to pace unspoken between them.  
“You know, she used to wear such extravagant hats all the time so nobody could kiss her,” Jacquelyn said quietly, eyes gazing distantly at the space where Esme had stood before the mirror, adjusting her curls. “She always said she’d rather not kiss out of polite acknowledgement, and keep her kisses for people she loves. She’s a little different now.”  
“How old were you when you first got together?” asked Olivia tentatively.  
“We grew up together,” Jacquelyn replied. “It’s how it is with lots of VFD kids… You grow together. It seems like everybody knows each other because we do.”  
“Has she always been…?”  
“A little bit evil? Always,” Jacquelyn replied with a smile. “She’s always had a dirty laugh, blood bluer than cornflowers and a surrealistic eroticism that means she’s never in all her life been boring. Esmé values pleasure; if evil is the center of hedonism, then I suppose she’s as evil as they come.”  
“She’s done a lot of terrible things,” Olivia replied.  
“Yes, and you were the one who was already here when I arrived; neither of us can afford to feign piety and purity, Olivia,” Jacquelyn replied, stretching like a cat and leaning back on the sofa. “She’s happy right now, and not the wild happy where she’ll tear the world apart just to be doing _something_. I daresay she’s feeling rather domestic.”  
“The woman wipes surfaces down with Perrier water, she’s hardly domestic,” Olivia replied with a snort.  
“Domestic for Esmé,” grinned Jacquelyn. “Anyway, all that aside, I think it’s about time you told me what happened.”  
“Between me and Esmé?”  
“All of it,” Jacquelyn clarified. “Tell me how you ended up here. Tell me… what happened after Jacques.”  
Olivia nodded, her dark eyes full of a deep sobriety, before she drew a breath and began to speak.

 


End file.
